


Then You're Better Off Dead

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Drama, HIV/AIDS, Infection, M/M, Protective Brian, s3e07, steroid use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diverging from S3E07. Michael slips and accidentally jabs himself with one of Ben's dirty needles. It's his own fault, really - but Brian doesn't see it that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Right, Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Re-watching s3e07, I couldn't help but imagine things going a different way. The rating is up for debate because I don't have this fic fully planned out. (kind of a spur of the moment write) Trigger warnings for manipulation, some minor violence (on Brian's part, mostly - you know Brian...), needles, mentioned steroid use, conflict, disease transmission, etc.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael's got a shaky hand and a faltering nerve. Ben is helpless to stop it.

“Where did you get that?”

Finally, a real response. He wishes that he could savor the moment, the note of burgeoning panic in Ben’s voice, the slight widening of his eyes. _Finally._

He’s done nothing but rage and sneer for weeks now, and Michael is putting his fucking foot down.

“I found it.” He shrugs without meeting his eyes, casual, turning the syringe over and over in his fingers. Slow, careless. Watches with some kind of sick, vindictive pleasure as Ben’s horrified eyes flicker down to watch it. “Wrapped up in the garbage.” And he looks up.

Voice soft, hands soft. The needle glints in the dim light, anticipatory. Ben hardly dares to move, looking back up to Michael’s face.

They’d both known this was coming. Something had to give.

Michael sure as _hell_ wasn’t going to be the one to buckle.

“ _Michael_ –” There it is – panic, real and blooming red before him. He manages not to smile. It’s not really the time for that – he doesn’t want to look _completely_ deranged, although considering what he’s doing right now, that’s a lost cause.

“Michael I’ve _used_ it, j – just put it down.”

Oh, no. It’s not that easy, Ben. We both know that.

“You know, seeing Vic and his new boyfriend, it really, made me think… y’know.” He shrugs again, staring at the needle. God, he’s holding something that could kill him. It almost makes him want to throw it across the room – but no, he can’t, he… He has to do this. For Ben.

He’d do anything for Ben, and maybe he’ll never speak to him again after this, but it’s _worth it._ He tells himself that, firmly, adamantly. Worth it.

This will all be over soon. And it will be worth it.

“Maybe you’re right, maybe you should be with a pos guy.” He meets his eyes again, briefly, satisfied with the barely stifled anxiety in Ben’s posture, and then looks back down at his weapon of choice. _I feel like a kamikaze._

There’s a pause as Ben stumbles, trying to play the game, make his move – neither of them want to lose this game, not with the stakes so high right now.

“No – no, no,” he manages, pacing to the right, taking a breath to steady himself. Making an excuse. “I was upset. I, I said that, I, I didn’t mean t–”

No. _No_ , he’s sick of the fucking excuses –

Filled with sudden, reckless anger, he takes a firm grip on the syringe and holds it over his wrist, hovering, a clear and silent threat.

“Maybe that pos guy should be me.” And he points it directly at his vein.

Shit, he could _die._

Ben can’t contain it any longer, voice climbing anxiously, reaching for him. “No – _Michael,_ please–!”

“Please what?” He plays innocent, but they both know who’s calling the shots now. Brian would be proud of him, his little manipulator. His prodigy.

Actually, Brian would _kill_ him for even thinking about doing this – so it’s best he never finds out.

But he’s never g _oing_ to find out. Michael has everything under control.

For _once._

He looks up, holds Ben’s gaze for a long moment, and there is a silent, fearful understanding on Ben’s face. Panic. He hopes he can keep it there a little longer, just long enough to make him realize what he’s been doing to himself. To them.

“All it would take is a quick jab in a vein and…” He shakes his head, looking down again. He tells himself that his hands aren’t shaking. It’s a lie. His whole body is about to be shaking. He remembers, suddenly, why he dropped out of public speaking in the tenth grade. He’s not cut out for performing. “It’ll be over in a flash, I’ll hardly feel a thing and I’d be just like you.”

He adjusts his grip. His palms feel sweaty, slippery. How long is he going to be able to keep this up?

He can still feel the weight of Ben’s horrorstruck stare on him, on his face, on his bare, exposed wrist. The needle is barely a centimeter above his skin. Sweat beads on his brow, ugly anticipation tightening the pit of his gut.

Ben’s voice strains, and Michael almost thinks it might crack. “I don’t w _ant_ you to be like me.” It’s pleading. Desperate.

He reminds himself again, sternly, shakily. He has to do this. Has to.

_For Ben. For us._

“You said you want someone, who knows what you’re going through. Who wakes up every morning, and suddenly remembers – hey that’s _right,_ I’ve got this _thing.”_ The anger is back, surging forcibly to the surface. He can’t keep it out of his face, his voice – shit, _fuck,_ he can’t start crying now, it will ruin everything –

They watch each other, stare off. It’s so fucked up Michael thinks he could almost laugh, if he weren’t so close to sobbing.

_Do it for Ben._

“Who thinks every time he gets a cold, or the flu – this is it, this is the end.” He looks back down quickly to disguise the fact that his vision is blurring with angry tears. Fucking _Ben,_ who had to go get addicted to – to fucking drugs, like some junkie, some pathetic junkie like Ted’s old scumbag twink – and then, have the fucking g _all_ to say it was for his health. There’s nothing healthy about it. Michael is doing him a _favor_ right now, scaring it out of him.

The syringe shakes in his hand. He struggles to get a hold of himself, continue his dialogue. He’d had it all planned out but he’s already going off the script.

He has to wrap this up, before Ben catches on. Before he takes control. _Michael_ is in control, Michael has to be, and it’s _his_ responsibility. Ben’s not in his right mind…

“Who’s filled with this resentment and anger because he can never have kids, and who has to shoot himself up, and who has to shoot himself up with _steroids,_ because his lover died, and he’s scared SHITLESS he’s next–”

Ben inhales deeply, staring, guilt and fear wearing his expression down to nothing but bleak dread.

His hands are fucking shaking.

“- And has to drive away the person he loves and – who _loves him –”_ God damn it, that’s it. His voice cracks and the tears start forming rapidly at the edges of his vision, clinging to his lashes, breath coming in quick, angry bursts. “- Because he _doesn’t understand.”_

Fuck you, Ben, fuck _you –_

“Well now I _will.”_ He can feel the shift in the air, the response he was looking for, as he lowers the needle with is shaking, useless piece of _shit_ hand, betraying him –

Ben is begging in the background, shuddering, reaching, “No – please, please don’t, for God’s sake – _STOP!”_

He hasn’t raised his voice in anything but senseless anger in weeks. Michael feels the pull of gratitude in his gut immediately, the knot loosening, and he takes a shaky, relieved breath – his shoulders tighten and he moves to look up at him –

And his hand, his _goddamn hand –_

There’s a cold, quick pinch, and he yanks the syringe away, throws it to clatter on the floor across the room.

But it’s too late.

Damage done.

The color drains from his face, and he slowly, slowly looks back up to watch the same happen to Ben’s. The silence is thick, empty. Oppressive.

Neither of them breathes.

This was not what was supposed to happen.

“Ben –” Now he’s the one, the breathless, pleading one, but Ben’s face has closed off already, ashen and dead and fuck, it’s his fault. He should never have – it wasn’t his place –

“Ben, I didn’t mean –” There’s a rising, choked note of panic in his voice but Ben isn’t listening, can’t anymore, has already put his head in his hands and turned blindly into the bedroom, letting out a sound like a wounded animal.

There’s a moment of absolutely nothing, and then – a crash, and a raw, angry, helpless shout.

_“FUCK!”_

Ben is crying. No. He’s sobbing, angry, throwing things – breaking things, probably his hand, sobbing and yelling. “ _FUCK!_ No! _Fuck!”_

Michael can’t move. He stares at the wall, lips parted, clutching his wrist.

Getting tested takes months. Three months, until he can hope for an accurate result. And – getting tested now, minutes after the exposure, would be useless…

Jesus Christ. Fuck. _Fuck._

 _“FUCK!”_ Ben chokes out, in pain or in despair he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know… anything.


	2. The Thorn of a Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian gets wind of Michael's mishap and does what Brian always does, when Michael is in danger.

Liberty Avenue isn’t the safest of places, even late on a Wednesday night, but he doesn’t know where else to go.

He can’t tell Emmett – look what happened the last time he had an HIV scare. So, he can’t tell Ted… and he can’t tell his _mother –_ God, he can’t even imagine it – and Vic would have his ass on a platter if he knew what Michael had been doing, playing with fire like that. He can’t tell Lindsey and Melanie because they have the biggest gossipy mouths he’s ever heard and-

And because they’ll tell Justin.

And Justin will tell Brian…

He sits on a park bench in the cold, in the dark, wishing morbidly that someone might come out of the dark to stab him and steal his wallet, if only so he can bleed out before he has to know that he’s destined to die, anyways.

_Real dramatic, Michael._

He almost feels guilty – Ben is at home, probably still heaving with guilt, pulling his hair out by the roots but Michael just _can’t_ go home. He can’t face him. Not now.

This is all his fault, and now Ben isn’t going to want anything to do with him.

He’s a manipulative asshole is what he is. He deserves this fucking death sentence.

Who plays with needles and expects it to turn out _alright?_

God, there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to turn to. For the first time in months he thinks desperately of David and how he would have handled this. Or how the old Ben might have, before all the roid rage.

They’d tell him to be calm, to wait it out. They’d rub his back and tell him it was alright.

He doesn’t fucking want _calm._ He wants to scream, he wants to cry and scream himself hoarse and let everyone in the fucking city know how unfair this is.

He can’t tell Justin. Why would he even want to? The kid might be a decent business partner, and sure, he might have matured in the past year, but they’re not _friends._ At least, not yet. They could be…

This isn’t exactly what he would deem an appropriate “bonding moment”, though.

And it’s not as though he can just call David up after a year of nothing just to say “I think I just gave myself AIDS.” As if. It’s none of his business, he doesn’t want anything to do with Michael anymore, anyways – he’d made that _perfectly clear._

Then… there’s Ben.

So that’s obviously out.

He’s come to the very end of his mental list of confidantes, scrambling for something else, someone else, someone who will let him relieve the ache of guilt and restrained fear building behind his eyes and in his sinuses right now – he even considers his father, briefly, before remembering that he doesn’t even have his fucking number.

There’s still one name left. One glaringly obvious name that he’d pointedly glossed over, multiple times, the one in neon right there at the top.

God, but Brian would kill him…

(No. Brian would kill Ben, because Brian has always looked out for him and that’s not about to change. Brian would rip his throat out with his fucking teeth for letting this happen.)

That thought shouldn’t be comforting, but everything about Brian screams comfort to him right now.

Who else can he go to? He can’t just stay out here freezing his ass off all night, especially if – if –

Fuck, he’s going to be _sick._

His knees wobble when he heaves himself to his feet, still holding his wrist close to his body, as if exposing it to the cold air would seal his fate. His fingers are stiff and numb on the keys of his cell phone.

Fuck it. Just fuck it.

He doesn’t have it in him to resist tonight.

“Brian?” his voice rings weakly in the chilly air. Somewhere a block away someone’s car alarm is blaring. He swallows, throat hot, face freezing.

Ironically, his hands have stopped shaking.

“It’s Mikey...”

* * *

 

This can’t be happening.

Ben sinks to the floor, back against the wall. His knuckles are throbbing. He can’t feel his face anymore.

“Jesus, Michael.” It comes out choked.

Michael isn’t here anymore. He’s gone out, and Ben hadn’t even tried to go after him.

This is his fault. His fault.

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, shaky breath, remembering the sudden panic on his face when the needle had pierced the skin. He hadn’t really meant to do it at all, but now it’s happened and now he’s – he might be –

How is he going to get up and teach his class in the morning?

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening…

* * *

 

He’s only ever Mikey when he’s lost, or when he’s Brian’s.

“I’ll be right there. Don’t move.”

Hardly two seconds after he hears that pathetic, reedy voice through the line, Brian is out of bed and halfway into a pair of jeans. Justin watches sleepy and silent through blond eyelashes. He knows by now not to question things, where Michael is concerned.

(Everyone who’s anyone to Brian Kinney learns at some point that they’ll always be second in line, where Michael is concerned.)

He doesn’t bother buttoning his shirt all the way, barely making it past his nipples before he’s zipping his jacket up to his chin. His eyes flash keenly to the window, the frost slowly receding this past week – but it’s still fucking cold, and Michael is out there on his own. _Fucking idiot._ Scowling to himself, he grabs his wallet and his keys and turns halfway to give Justin a passing wave.

“I’ll be back.”

Justin rolls his eyes, smirking with half-hearted laziness. “Right.” He sits up on his elbows, watching his boyfriend-in-the-nonconventional-nonmanogamous-sense-of-the-word jerk the loft door open and then shut again behind him with a slam that echoes through the building. He shuts his eyes again and lies back, making himself comfortable.

“Be back by three,” he calls, and grins at the ghost of Brian’s middle finger behind his eyelids.

Maybe he ought to get out of here before Brian drags Michael home by his shirt collar, but then again, he’s pretty damn comfortable where he is…

Fuck it. They’ll just have to deal with his presence.

After all, it’s his home too. And he’s got work in the morning, at the diner, and he’d promised to meet Daphne for breakfast, and...

And then class until six. God, he doesn’t even have _time_ to think about Brian. Let him deal with whatever tantrum Michael is having tonight on his own! At this rate he’s going to be serving pancakes on four hours of sleep.

Groaning at the very thought, Justin rolls over and buries his face into the nearest pillow.

_The woes of being a starving young artist…_

* * *

 

By the time Brian rolls up in the Jeep, eyebrows raised and window lowered, Michael has almost forgotten that he was coming.

No snarky remarks pass between them. It’s almost a miracle. Especially considering that Brian doesn’t know yet.

But it’s like he can feel it in the air – the tension lingers on Michael’s clothes, clings to him like a dark cloud, and Brian eyes him critically as he shivers and fumbles with the door, finally managing to swing it open and slide inside.

“Thanks.” He doesn’t look up when he says it, keeps his eyes trained on his own feet like some chastised, guilty puppy dog. Brian snorts and leans back in his seat, rolling the window up and cranking up the heat.

“Alright, spit it out. What are you doing out here in the middle of the fucking night?” He fixes his sex-mussed hair in the rearview mirror, eyes flashing over to Michael once more. He’s abnormally pale. He calculates mentally how long it will take him to get Michael to talk this time.

Predictably, that doesn’t garner a response. _Fine, Mikey, be that way._

“Is the nutty professor driving you nutty?”

“He’s at home.”

It’s barely above a whisper, and it’s hardly the reaction Brian was looking for. He narrows his eyes in the mirror and plasters on the beginnings of one of his trademark sneers, the kind that simultaneously spoke volumes of condescension and got him laid on an ultra-regular basis.

“And… why aren’t you?” Of course, Michael knows better than to fall for his asshole routine. (If it is a routine… sometimes even Brian isn’t sure of that, but Michael’s always been adamant.)

Still, he won’t meet his eyes.

Something is up with little Mikey, then.

In the mirror, he watches Michael shrug his shoulders, slumping them half-heartedly. “We had a fight.”

Oh, no. No they didn’t – because if they had a fight, Brian would be listening to Michael rant and whine for hours on end about what an ass Ben was being tonight, or for the past week, and they’d be passing a cigarette or maybe a blunt between them, and Brian would be slipping his hand teasingly over Michael’s thigh, reminding him that _at least you can always count on me, Mikey._

“Bullshit.” He takes great satisfaction in the way his friend stiffens and grimaces into his lap. He keeps rubbing his wrist, up under the sleeve of his jacket, in a way that reminds Brian uncomfortably of that night when they were fourteen and Michael had slapped a razorblade out of his hand, blood dripping down his arms and into the bathroom sink.

_No, not now, forget about that –_

Right now he’s got to be there for Michael. Because he always is. Because that’s the only thing he can ever be accountable for – and everyone knows it.

“Come on, Novotny, we don’t have all night.” He finally looks over, impatient, and claps a hand heavily down on his shoulder. Michael flinches slightly away from him, brown eyes darting up nervously over his face before he jerks his head toward the window, pulling his fingers out of his sleeve to reach for the door handle.

Brian slams his hand down on the lock and Michael’s head snaps back to him in disbelief.

“I’m _kidding.”_ He looks at him in mild disbelief. “We have as long as you goddamn want. Now come _on._ Tell me what the hell is wrong.” When Michael doesn’t immediately open his mouth, he raises both eyebrows. “Am I going to have to kick someone’s ass?”

Michael gives a choked little laugh that puts Brian on edge, although he’d be _damned_ if he let anyone in on that little secret. Little Mikey Novotny, making Brian Kinney into a skittish little pet? God. He really was pathetic.

He’s startled out of his reverie by the first real sentence Michael has uttered all night. “You mean Ben? Sorry to tell you this, Bri, but I really doubt _you’d_ stand a chance against…” He coughs, suddenly expressionless again. Right. He doesn’t like to talk about the _roids._ Brian darkly makes a mental note to get a shot in the next time that asshole Ben’s got his back to him. _No one messes with Michael, no one but me._ “Not unless you want to put your fist through _my_ teeth, no.”

“Jesus Christ, Michael, will you quit playing the villain?” It gets old fast, sometimes. Michael is so predictable – but maybe, well, he has to admit, he’s been around longer than most. Larger sample size, one could say, of a certain scrawny Jewish boy’s behavior…

Michael is looking at him with those wide wary doe eyes of his, like some deer in the headlights. That never bodes well…

Brian can already feel his migraine coming on. Another mental note – pick up a bottle of Motrin on the way back to the loft.

“I…” Michael takes a breath, then lets it out, fiddling anxiously with his sleeve. Brian lets his eyes drop down to his clothed wrist, wondering silently, _waiting._ “I – this was a stupid idea. I should just go back… apologize…”

“You wouldn’t have called me out here in the middle of the fucking night on a Wednesday –” He glances at the clock on the dash and gives a short, humorless laugh. “Sorry, _Thursday,_ just to fidget in my passenger seat, so open your mouth and get on with it. Hm?”

Michael just stares at him, looking like he’s going to fucking _cry,_ and Brian groans and slings an arm around him.

“Jesus – come _on,_ Mikey. You can _tell_ me.”

He nuzzles into his shoulder, nose brushing beneath his ear. Fuck, but he’s cold. That’s it. They’re stopping at the nearest 7/11 for a hot coffee and a bottle of painkillers, and maybe a pack of condoms while they’re at it. His voice goes low and soft, like it only ever does when they’re alone, and he feels Michael’s reluctant smile in the way his jaw loosens. “Come on. I’m your best friend.” He presses his lips there, exhaling warm air across his frozen skin, and draws out the word. “Ple-e-ease?”

“God, you’re such an ass,” he snorts, giving his shoulder a shove. Brian grins and hugs him closer, nipping at his earlobe – just because he can get away with it, with anything. Especially when it’s Michael. “I’m sorry I dragged you out of bed –”

“I already told you, it’s no problem.”

“- And out of Justin’s ass –”

“Hey. I’ll have you know, I’m very versatile. Maybe he was in _my_ ass.”

“Oh, I apologize,” Michael laughs, and Brian silently chalks up another point in his favor. He feels his lips curve upward just looking at him smile.

“You know what they say about assumptions, Mikey…”

After a brief scuffle involving Brian’s wayward tongue, Michael leans against the door, smile fading as the silence stretches comfortably between them. Brian eyes him lazily. Waiting.

He’s an expert at cracking this particular code.

Michael shuts his eyes and takes a deep, painful-looking breath. Brian’s world narrows down to the four words that fall from his lips and straight to the devil’s fucking ears.

“I... might be positive.”

* * *

 

 

“Hey. _Hey. Bruckner!”_

Ben looks up from his lesson plan, startled, glasses threatening to fall down his nose. He looks almost as much like a mess as he feels. Michael hadn’t come home the night before, and he hadn’t even had the time to worry about it before he had to be here, had to be ready to teach, calm, composed, Zen Ben…

God. He’s never felt less _Zen_ in his entire fucking life.

The man marching down the stairs into his lecture hall is only going to make it worse, he’s already sure of that. In true Brian Kinney style, he storms in with a bang and commands the attention of the entire room, eyes glinting dangerously as he advances on him.

Ben holds up his hands in surrender before he can even think of what to do, taking an alarmed step back as Brian stomps into his personal space and grabs him by the collar, snarling.

“ _What_ the _fuck_ have you done?”

“W-what have I done?” He starts to stammer, just like last night, his voice wobbling. God, he can’t do this here, not right now. He can feel fifty pairs of eyes wide and silent, bearing down on him. Even God is watching. “What – is this about Michael? Have you seen him?”

Suddenly, he’s less afraid and more relieved, letting out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. “Brian – can we do this later, I’m kind of –”

“Oh, I’ve seen him alright.” He’s never seen Brian quite so dangerous before, but he supposes he’s never had the misfortune of being completely on his bad side. Michael had made sure of that. And, of course, Michael also had the power to let the hounds loose… “I’ve done more than fucking _see_ him, teach. He called me at _midnight_ last night, from the goddamn park. Do you know how fucking cold it was last night, _teach?”_

“Brian.” He coughs, starting to feel awkward – and a little bit shaky. He hadn’t injected himself in over twenty four hours and he was starting to feel it, call him crazy. Maybe it was a fruitless venture, but he had to try and reason with a madman now. “Now isn’t a good time. I’m – glad that Michael is safe, but right now…”

“Answer me!” Brian shakes him like a rag doll, ignoring the quiet murmurings behind him. One of the students slips out of his seat and cautiously makes for the exit, whispering something about getting security. Ben almost tells him not to.

Hell, if he’s really honest, he knows he probably deserves to be humiliated. And punched in the eye, which it looks like he’s going to be, in about ten seconds.

“Hey, _professor,”_ Brian is seething, nose to nose, and even though he probably weighs forty pounds less than Ben in muscle mass alone he manages to be menacing. “Riddle me this: when some worthless piece of shit _junkie_ finishes using one of his precious needles, _where_ should he be discarding them? Oh, I forgot to mention – he’s _positive._ What the _fuck_ were you doing – what the fuck were you _thinking?”_

For a moment he really, really thinks that Brian is going to punch him. He closes his eyes, tensing, braced for it.

The talons in his collar loosen, and he stumbles backwards, blinking anxiously. Brian curls his lip, superiorly disgusted.

“I don’t want you anywhere near him. Have I made myself clear? Don’t you lay a fucking finger on him, _ever_ again. And get out of his fucking apartment.”

“Brian –” He swallows dryly and blinks again, hard, his heart still pounding. “Brian, please. Let me explain – apologize. I know it’s my fault –”

Brian whips around, fists clenched, teeth bared. “Yeah, you’re fucking right it is.”

Ben finds that he doesn’t have anything to say to that, snapping his mouth shut and just nodding, once, tightly.

Brian sneers and jabs a finger at him. There are shadows beneath his eyes – Ben wonders abstractly if he’d been up all night, with Michael. If Michael is with him now, waiting in the car…

“Stay away from him. Think you can handle that?”

There is a long, uncomfortable silence. Ben pretends that he can’t see the curious, fearful stares of his judging students, flickering between them.

“You’d fucking better.” His tone is deadly. He probably uses that tone to put the fear of God into his underlings at VanGuard.

And with that, he’s stalking back up and out the door, brushing past the security guard currently entering without a backward glance. No one moves, or speaks, for a long minute.

Ben thinks his head is going to explode if he doesn’t lie down soon.

“Ah – I was told there was a disturbance…?” The man in highlighter yellow shifts awkwardly, squinting in Ben’s direction. He just blinks several times, mind in ten different places, and finds it in himself to shake his head.

“Ah – no. No, everything’s fine. Thank you,” he says tightly, smile wearing thin across his face.

Brian’s presence leaves a strong, bitter aftertaste, more so than usual, and already the day is looking longer than he thinks he’ll be able to manage. His words are trapped in his skull, whirling around in a sickening spiral of guilt. He was _right._

The question was: did Michael think so?

With a deep breath, he plasters a smile back onto his face and turns to sweep his gaze over his traumatized students. “Right. Well, as I was saying. We have on our agenda today the latent homosexuality in the texts of Sylvia Plath…”


End file.
